Is There, In Truth, No Beauty

I am the dry path

Sat between

The first rain drops

I am the dandelion

Dancing in a field

Missed by the scythe

I am the spark

That jumps

From flint to straw

I am the breaking wave

Crashing up against

Deserted beaches

I am the words

Caught in the throat

Of dirty liars

I am the light

Crawlin...

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Strange Fruit

“what is beautiful?”

asks Eliza

for she thinks

that she is not

because they tell her

she is not

“why are they hurtful?”

as if the outside

somehow sullies

what is inside

and insinuates the sour

to what is sweet

“why do they ridicule?”

the size the shape

the roughness of my skin

the growths

the fact my spine

Is out of...

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